The Place Where in the End / We Find Our Happiness

The history of revolutions is the history of vague ideas,
Shrugging shoulders, not shrugging shoulders,
Standing around, acting without thinking,
Acting with thinking, being penned or penning,
Being a woman or a girl standing around,
A woman or a girl with some flour in her pocket
for tossing up a cloud of flour
to obscure the martial men's sight.
That white cloud of whatever
Among the moving and unmoving bodies
Is that history-like unhistory
of the ahistorical average,
That lovely inexact and provisional something—
weaponized or never.
How totally under-theorized is breathing,
Walking and not walking,
Wanting to have a good time or just having it,
Like everybody is gunning toward Eden
and nobody is in school with their bodies anymore.
The history of revolutions is a history of the orthodox
weeping over their faltering
orthodoxies:
Any precise thing—dumb these days:
The very idea imprinting nothing
on the air between the general buildings.
No human space—a printer's paper.
Nothing exact—impressed.